River of Bones, page 12
‘You saved many lives today,’ he said and took off his hat, shook off the rain, and placed it on Arthur’s wet head. ‘I am very proud of you. But I need to ask one more thing of you. In two days, the photographs of each man and woman you see over there…’ Quinn thrust his thumb over his shoulder toward the group of dishevelled staff. ‘…will be ready for you to look at. Do you understand?’
Solemnly, Arthur signalled yes.
‘Good. All you need to do is point at each photograph, and tell us if that person hurt or killed any of the children.’
Arthur pointed at his eyes and thumbed his chest.
‘You mean to say you’re ready to do that?’
He shook his head, pointed at his eyes and thrust his fist toward the staff.
‘You…want to see them in person? In the holding cells?’
Yes, signalled Arthur. Yes!
Astonished, Quinn sat back. ‘Tomorrow morning, then?’
The boy gave Quinn a nod that made his hat tumble to the ground.
‘Good.’ Quinn put the hat back on Arthur’s head, squeezed his shoulder, and stood. ‘You will have questions. Draw them for me. As pictures.’
* * *
It was past ten o’clock that night when Quinn showed up at our doorstep, drenched, dirty, and worn to the bone. A police carriage was waiting by our gate.
I bade him come inside, but he declined. ‘I’m on my way home. I need to see my daughter.’
‘Is she ill?’
He shook his head. ‘I need to hug her. Make sure she’s happy. I’ve seen too much suffering today. Professor Goodman wasn’t able to tell me the exact number of bodies that were recovered today, but it must be dozens. Most are skeletons that are…what did he call it…’
‘Disarticulated,’ I provided.
‘Yes. The small bones came apart at the joints. The river worked them free. Dogs and rodents dug them up. But the privy.’ He rubbed a palm over his face. ‘By the gods, the privy! Goodman said the freshest corpses showed clear signs of having been alive when they were thrown in. The infants we found…’ His shoulders were trembling. He stared hard at our threshold, his chest heaving. ‘And the ones that were still alive. Starving. Small children tied by their legs to a ring in the wall or to a heavy log. All of them covered in lice and sores and…’ His voice failed.
I took a step closer and wrapped my arms around his waist, and put my head against his shoulder. Air struggled through his windpipe. His heart staggered in his chest.
‘Breathe with me,’ I whispered, remembering how he’d taught me to breathe again after the Railway Strangler had put his hands to my throat and thrown his whole weight against me. I had believed I would never draw another breath.
Quinn slipped an arm around my shoulder and groaned. After several heartbeats, he calmed.
‘How is Arthur?’ he murmured.
‘Exhausted, but fine. He and Klara were playing and reading. They fell asleep on my bed an hour ago. I’ll have to squeeze myself really thin tonight.’ I stepped out of our embrace.
Quinn’s eyes were shut. With effort, he opened them and looked at me. It was as if I could see into him. The darkness I found there felt like home.
‘We need to take your statement,’ he said. ‘The prisoners are being kept isolated from each other. Prevents them from agreeing on a single version of events. But when Arthur comes to identify them tomorrow, we’ll put them all in one cell together with a few plainclothes detectives. He’ll be safe. Make sure he knows that. But don’t tell him about the detectives. A judge will be present as well because the circumstances are unusual. The key witness being the ward of the detective leading the case.’
‘Will that be a problem in the trial?’
‘No. That’s why the judge will be there. It also helps that Arthur lives with you, not me. Everyone agrees that I had very little opportunity and no motivation to influence him. I’ll be back tomorrow at nine. Good night, Elizabeth. And…thank you.’
‘For what?’
‘The hug. I needed it.’
* * *
‘I didn’t tell you last night, because I wasn’t sure,’ Quinn began, as we jostled over bumpy streets the following morning. He threw a sideways glance at Arthur and Klara, who were drawing faces on the foggy window of the police carriage. ‘Whatever Charles Hartwell was investigating, it had nothing to do with the orphanage. Arthur was taken away from that orphanage four months ago, and there’s no building in the area that’s high enough for a fall to cause the severity of injuries seen on Hartwell’s body. None of the orphanage’s staff remember seeing a man looking like Hartwell. And none of the staff have seen Arthur in the last few months. Hartwell must have been killed elsewhere.’
‘I’m pretty sure they are lying.’
‘I’m pretty sure most of them are. But the matron asked for leniency in exchange for information.’ Quinn brushed an index finger over his moustache. The corner of his mouth curled in wry amusement. ‘I granted it, of course. She didn’t insist on a written agreement, and I failed to point that out to her. Naturally, neither Boyle nor I can recall exactly what it was she asked for. Or if she asked for anything at all.’
‘How very unfortunate for her.’
‘Indeed. She gave us the names of several other men involved in this…business. A physician who gave out death certificates for infants who were seriously ill, malnourished, and mistreated. While they were still alive. He would post-date the certificates by at least half a year so the orphanage would continue to receive monthly allowances from the Boston Children’s Services even after the children were killed.’ He dropped his hands to his thighs. ‘Do you know what she called it? The matron? A humane end to the suffering of the little angels. It took all of my control not to break her neck right then.’
A bitter tickle ran up my gullet. I couldn’t suppress a snarl. ‘Dumping sick babies in the privy and letting them drown in shit is humane?’
Klara looked up and I clapped my mouth shut.
‘Who’s that?’ I pointed at the drawing on the window.
‘Arthur,’ she said, lifting her chin and squaring her shoulders.
‘You have to put Quinn’s big hat on him,’ I suggested. At once, she went back to squeaking her index finger over the foggy pane.
Quinn put his mouth close to my ear and whispered, ‘I rarely ever wish death on anyone, but now I find myself hoping desperately that judge and jury will find them all guilty and send them to the gallows. If they aren’t hanged, I’m not sure I won’t take matters into my own hands.’
‘Why did they do it? Did the matron tell you?’
‘Money. Like most orphanages, they have been financing themselves through governmental fees and private donations. Once a year, they opened the orphanage to benefactors. Made sure to polish the place and display only their healthiest wards. Made sure to invite inspectors from the Board of Health that day, and made excuses for any other day the Board might try to schedule.’ Quinn unfurled his fists and flexed his fingers. ‘I wonder if one or more inspectors knew about this, and hid it. Because this couldn’t have gone unnoticed!’
‘The inspectors the Board of Health sends to Wards Six and Seven don’t give a damn about the people there. The Board intentionally prettifies their data on infant deaths.’
‘But why?’
‘Because there are too many. We would all look like monsters if we knew that thousands of children were dying in the slums every year while we go about our own lives, bickering about the weather. But what happened to the older children? There must have been older children in the orphanage. Arthur couldn’t have been the only one.’
He took a shallow breath, grasped my hand, and whispered over the clatter of wheels, ‘That was their main source of income. Children four years and older were sold to factories, workshops, and domestic services. The pretty ones, though…’
‘Brothels.’
‘Yes. Elizabeth, we’ve stumbled into a child slave market. I want to slap myself for…’ He trailed off, burying his face in his hand.
I touched his wrist. ‘For not seeing monsters when you asked the staff about a missing boy?’
He dropped his hand. His face had lost all colour. ‘Yes. I was arrogant. I fancied myself a good lie detector. I saw no fear, no pretence in the headmaster’s eyes when he told me that no child had gone missing in the past weeks. And so I didn’t dig any deeper.’ He turned his gaze to the window. ‘When he telephoned me to tell me that he recalled a mute boy having been adopted a few months back, I didn’t smell the deceit. He sounded like a concerned and kind man. I remember thinking that the children were lucky to have someone like him.’
‘Why did the man come forward to tell you about Arthur? He had so much to hide. Why draw more attention to himself?’
‘I can’t be sure, but I think he believed himself a suspect in the killing of Hartwell. He wanted to draw the attention away from himself.’
‘So he conjured up the name Tillmann. That whole story.’
Quinn dipped his head.
‘Are you sure Arthur was sold four months ago?’
‘It was in their books. They didn’t even use the children’s names. Arthur was the mute boy. All the others were numbers.’
We trundled to a halt at Pemberton Square. Quinn opened the door, stepped down, and lifted Klara onto the pavement. Arthur jumped out, stuffed his hands into his pockets, and straightened his back.
‘Are you ready?’ Quinn asked him.
Arthur grabbed Klara’s hand, and marched toward the police station.
Sergeant Boyle received us in the lobby and sent a young constable to inform Judge Cornell that the witness had arrived. ‘It will just be a minute,’ he said, and showed us to a row of chairs.
As we waited, I wondered who’d had bought Arthur, and if was the same person who killed Hartwell. Did the people who had been buying children from the orphanage know about their mistreatment, about the killings?
How could they not?
It didn’t take long for three men in tailored suits to appear. They were introduced as Judge Cornell, Magistrate Peabody, and Peabody’s officer, Mr Richards. They must have been expecting an avalanche of newspaper articles on the orphan killings, or else they wouldn’t have pulled themselves out of their comfortable offices to witness Arthur’s statement.
Judge Cornell seemed pleasant enough, but the Magistrate stared down his nose and said in a voice too high for a man that size, ‘This is a police station, not a public playground!’
Quinn emptied his expression and changed into the man he’d shown me when we first met. His cold, calculating side. Even his voice was void of emotion when he said, ‘I am sure the last thing our witness expects is for us to play games with him. If, however, it becomes necessary to provide him with reassurance, I will turn this police station into a playground. Unless you have a better idea for gaining the trust of a small child, one who did his best to point us to a crime as atrocious as any of us have ever seen? No? Very good. Let us proceed, then.’ As he turned his back on the magistrate, I knew he’d have to pay for that lack of respect. Silently, I applauded his move.
Quinn took the lead down a flight of stairs. Arthur braced himself and followed, Klara holding one of his hands and I the other. Magistrate Peabody, Mr Richards, and Judge Cornell trailed behind us, murmuring about an upcoming boxing match. Their conversation ceased when Quinn entered the dank corridor that led to the holding cells. I remembered the day Watchman Hooper had knocked me over the head, and dragged me down there.
Quinn stopped walking. I pushed Hooper from my mind, and the fact that we were standing in front of the very cell I’d woken up in.
‘Stand,’ Quinn snapped at the prisoners.
I recognised two police officers among the group of more than a dozen men and women. The plainclothes detectives were among the prisoners not only to keep them from communicating or attacking one another but also to serve as identification controls. I hoped Arthur would take his time and not point at any of the policemen, whether from nervousness or confusion. He was only about six years old, and much was being asked of him.
It would make this case so much more complicated if there should be no credible witness. The bodies and the dozens of small skeletons gave evidence of the cruelties committed. But bones couldn’t tell us who had done the killing, who had aided in it, and who had known nothing about it.
The judge manoeuvred himself in front of Arthur and spoke, ‘Do you recognise any of these men and women?’
Arthur didn’t move.
‘It’s your beard,’ I said. ‘He can barely see your lips move. May I?’
‘Perhaps Inspector McCurley would do us the favour,’ he grumbled, and stepped aside.
Quinn went down on one knee. ‘Do you know these people?’
Arthur nodded.
‘I will ask them to step forward one by one. If that person mistreated you or any of the other children, you must nod or point. Later you draw for me what each one did. All right?’
Arthur signalled yes.
‘Line up,’ Quinn said to the prisoners. ‘First man on the left, step forward.’
Arthur grasped Quinn’s hand so hard his knuckles lost all colour. With the other hand, he pointed at the man, produced a nod and a dull sound in the back of his throat.
It went on. Quinn called forward each man and woman, one after the other. Arthur always both pointed and nodded to make sure we understood. Four times, he shook his head no. When it was done, the boy was pale and trembling, his hair plastered to his temples. Not only had he faced his nightmare, he had worked so hard to understand and be understood. Annie Lowell, Arthur’s sign language tutor, had told Quinn and me that even the best lip readers could only make out half a person’s words by lip reading. Everything else was interpretation of body language, gestures, expressions, and letting the mind fill the gaps. Lip reading was exhausting under the best circumstances, and Arthur hadn’t had that luxury.
‘You did very well,’ Quinn told him. ‘Did you see any of the prisoners bury a baby?’
A shudder went through Arthur. He jerked down his chin.
Quinn told all the people Arthur had identified to remain in line, and the others to sit down.
‘Can you point at the ones you’ve seen do it? I promise they can’t harm you.’
Arthur lifted a hand. And motioned at the entire row.
‘All of them?’
Yes, he signalled.
‘Did you see any of them kill the man you were found with?’ Quinn had to slowly repeat his question twice for the boy to understand what he wanted.
Arthur’s shoulder sagged. He shook his head. Quinn looked up at me and gave me a small nod. As I thought, his eyes said. He softened his expression and addressed the boy once more, ‘Did you see how Charles Hartwell was killed?’
A nod.
‘Do you see the person who did it in this cell?’
No, he signalled. No. Arthur twisted his neck to look at me and Klara, desperation carved into his face.
15
A few days of normalcy was all that I wanted for the children. The rain stopping, and a day at the market. An evening at the cove stomping about in our wellingtons, throwing stones and sticks into the surf, and feeding stale bread to the ever-hungry gulls. A few hours with Miss Lowell, learning sign language. And explaining to Arthur that this was his home now, as long as he wanted it.
He wanted it so much that he came to me every day to ask if he could really stay. He drew pictures of the house, the garden, the sea. Of Klara, Zach, Margery, and me. He would point at himself in those pictures, a question raising his eyebrows. And my answer was always the same.
This is your home.
Somehow, it felt like a lie. I couldn’t guarantee anything. I was not an American citizen. If I tried to adopt Arthur, I would face a bureaucratic and legal marathon with little chance of success. Our solution was unconventional. Quinn had gone to the Probate Court to get the adoption papers. Arthur was now legally his, but the guardianship for the boy would be transferred to me.
I had laughed when he suggested it. Told him that our neighbours would throw a big social event just to tittle-tattle about the inspector and the woman physician with the impossible haircut raising a child together in two different homes.
He’d just smiled and said, ‘It will be nice of us to provide a little entertainment for the old and feeble.’
* * *
Standing at the bay window, I unfolded Quinn’s letter again. I’d read it once, this collection of hastily scribbled notes. He was throwing his raw thoughts at me, hypotheses, and bits of information, in the hope I would come up with ideas.
The matron had given the police a wealth of information: how long they’d been selling children (eight years), how many physicians were on their payroll (two), the names and addresses of the many people who’d bought the older children, the number of infants dumped at the orphanage’s doorstep each year (three dozen, or thereabouts), but no estimation of how many children had died of malnutrition, starvation, sickness, or from suffocating in a hole in the ground. They’d not bothered to count them.
The exhumation had taken two full days. Goodman and his assistants had managed to reassemble the skeletons of thirty-six infants and children. Nine bodies were largely intact. Over two hundred other small bones lay scattered across several improvised tables in the morgue, waiting to be puzzled together.
Newspapermen kept clogging Pemberton Square, and wild theories were being thrown around by everyone and his dog about the boy who’d discovered the “River of Bones” as the site had come to be called.
I held up Quinn’s letter and read again the last lines in the fading evening light.
* * *
The matron refuses to talk about the people who took Arthur. Not one of the staff will say a word about the boy’s “adoptive parents.” Several of them admit to having played a part in the deaths of their wards. They do not hesitate to give the names of the other buyers (if able to recall them), but whenever I bring up Arthur’s buyers, I hit a wall of silence.
